Chapter 8 Alessio
ALESSIO
I’m not paying attention to the stage tonight.
I can’t focus on anything except the screwup with our alcohol order. Twice the vodka I requested, half the beer we need. I’ve spent the last hour on calls, and my patience is wearing thin.
“Mr. DeLuca, I understand your frustration, but Saturday deliveries require—”
“Listen carefully.” My voice cuts through his stammering. “You’re going to find a truck, load it with what I ordered, and have it here by nine a.m. Sharp.”
Silence stretches across the line. Then: “Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir. We’ll make this right.”
That’s better. I end the call and finally leave my office for the main floor. An act just finished, and the crowd’s worked up as expected. Drinks flowing, greasy bar food scattered across tables.
The kitchen was my addition when I took over this place. Just a couple deep fryers, but it keeps asses in chairs longer. Every decision I make here turns a profit.
“Problem sorted, boss?” Katrina asks from behind the bar.
She’s the best bartender I have, an ex-military badass who’s seen real combat. Her muscular arms and no-bullshit attitude draw a specific type of customer, the kind who prefers strength over the usual skinny blondes writhing on stage.
I settle onto a barstool. She pours my scotch without being asked. “Delivery’s coming in the morning,” I say.” I’ll be here to receive it personally.”
The music cuts out, and Harold’s voice booms over the speakers. The Spin Doctor might have a ridiculous stage name, but he knows how to work a crowd.
“You picked a good night, gentlemen. We’ve got fresh meat.”
I turn toward the stage, scotch in hand. Nearly forgot about the new girl starting tonight. Starla usually has good judgment about talent, but I want to check out this new stripper’s act. Make sure she’s up to snuff.
“Let me introduce you to Temptress.”
The music starts, and she steps into the light. Takes a moment to adjust, blinking against the brightness. I let my gaze travel down her body slowly. Perky breasts, lean body, long legs. She’s tall, too. Perfect for this work.
Then I really look at her face.
My heart fucking stops.
Nina.
Seven years since that night, and here she is, walking toward the pole with just enough swing in her hips to make every man in this place lean forward.
I never thought about tracking her down.
I’m a one-and-done kind of man. But as I watch her spin around that pole in a dress that’s practically transparent, every detail of our night together comes flooding back.
The sounds she made when she came. The way her touch lit me on fire. How she felt wrapped around my cock.
She grips the pole like she was born for it, sliding down slow, controlled. The crowd cheers, but all I see is her body moving the way it did beneath me – perfect rhythm, perfect heat.
Arousal shoots through me, and my dick responds immediately. Fuck.
It wasn’t just the sex, though. We talked after.
Talked. I don’t stick around for conversation, but Nina was different.
Engaging. She made me laugh, which nobody does.
For a split second that night, I thought about staying.
Fucking her again, learning her story, letting myself actually connect with someone.
That thought scared me enough to make me leave fast.
Maybe I’d consider fucking her again now. She was that good. But this pull I feel, even after all these years, tells me that would be a mistake. I don’t fuck the dancers, and I don’t fuck anyone I might grow feelings for. Two rules I need to remember.
Even now, watching her pull that dress up to reveal her perfect ass, I feel something stir that goes way beyond wanting to get her naked. Something that feels dangerously close to...attachment.
I don’t do attachment. People leave when they can’t handle this life. Better to never let them get close enough to matter.
I drain half my scotch in one swallow, relishing the burn. Desire pulses through my veins as Nina continues her routine, every movement reminding me of how she felt writhing beneath me.
Her act ends with her opening her bra, showing the room those perfect tits. Her cherry nipples are hard, and I remember exactly how they tasted.
Christ. I’m practically panting.
I slam my glass down and slide off the stool. Office. Paperwork. Anything to get my head straight.
But the second I close my office door, I’m ripping open my pants and wrapping my hand around my aching cock. A hiss escapes as I stroke from base to tip.
Eyes closed, the image is crystal clear: Nina bent over, dark hair wild down her back, the flare of her hips beneath my hands as I fuck her from behind. The memory’s sharper than any woman I’ve been with since.
My hand moves faster. I remember the way she looked back at me over her shoulder, those grey eyes locking on mine. The warmth that lit me up in that moment—
No. I bite my lip hard, pushing that memory away. That tender bullshit doesn’t matter.
Instead, I focus on how she looked on stage minutes ago. Her body’s changed over the years. Curvier now, fuller breasts, wider hips. Still gorgeous, maybe more so. In my mind, I trace those new curves, cup those fuller breasts as she rides me.
Pure fantasy, no emotion. I jerk myself until I come, making a mess of my shirt while biting back a groan.
But the moment my orgasm fades, annoyance floods through me.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I get laid whenever I want.
Willing women are everywhere; I turn on the charm, buy a drink, rarely go home alone.
There are mafia women who get off on fucking made men, who know the rules and don’t expect more.
So why am I jerking off like some desperate teenager?
My annoyance shifts to Nina as I change into a clean shirt. Why did she have to show up here and throw me off like this? Five minutes of watching her, and I’m running to my office like I’ve got something to hide.
Time to handle this. Make it clear that our past stays in the past.
I storm out and head for the dressing room. Most of the girls have cleared out, but Nina’s sitting at a vanity halfway down the wall. She’s thrown on a robe, but I can still see her in that pink thong, the image burned into my brain.
She stares at me with shock written across her face, and I remember the first time I looked into those grey eyes. She was cornered in the alley behind the casino, scared as hell. I acted out of character then, getting involved in someone else’s business.
Just like I’m doing now.
The realization pisses me off even more. She’s making me act in ways I normally wouldn’t. Time to put a stop to that.
I make a decision that’ll hurt her, but it’s necessary. I need to show her that night meant nothing.
“So, you’re the new girl.” I stride toward her, my voice carefully neutral without a hint of recognition.
She’s still staring like she’s seen a ghost.
“Alessio DeLuca. I own this place.”
I don’t offer my hand. Don’t want to touch her skin, not when my body’s still buzzing from getting myself off while thinking about her.
Nina’s mouth drops open. I see the exact moment she realizes I don’t recognize her. Hurt flickers across her face before she hides it behind a polite smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
Good. Keep it that way.
Despite the strange tightness in my chest, I suppress the voice telling me I’m being an asshole for no reason. If it hurts to think I don’t remember her, that’s not my problem. We weren’t a couple. There was nothing between us.
“Just making sure Starla went over the club rules.”
She nods jerkily, still searching my eyes for recognition. She won’t find any.
“Uh, yeah. No glitter, stay on the stage...”
“Lap dances only in private rooms. No drugs on the premises. I don’t give a shit what you do on your own time, but I don’t want sloppy strippers making bad decisions. And no taking money for sex. We give them a show here. I’m not a pimp.”
“That’s a lot of rules.”
“Necessary ones.” I implemented every one when I took over. The previous manager was a piece of shit who made girls blow him to keep their jobs, encouraged them to get wasted and fuck customers in back rooms. Disgusting and bad for business.
“I guess so.” She fiddles with her robe’s belt, working up courage for something. “Do you really not remember me?”
For half a second, I almost crack. I want to tell her I remember everything. Her laugh, her taste, her eyes begging for more. Instead, I cross my arms. “Should I?”
“We’ve met. We even... we slept together. About seven years ago.”
Her eyes dart away like she can’t look at me while saying it. Embarrassed I don’t remember?
“Sorry. Drawing a blank.”
This time she flinches, shoulders curling in. For a second, I hate myself. I have the stupidest urge to comfort her, which only reinforces why I need distance now. Better to hurt her feelings than let myself get attached.
“Really? You don’t remember? You paid off my ex-husband’s debt.”
I shrug. “I get a lot of pussy. Guess you didn’t stick out.” The second it’s out of my mouth, I know it’s the cruelest thing I could have said. Which is why I said it.
Her face goes completely blank. She stands abruptly, turns away, unzips her bag. Doesn’t look at me when she speaks again.
“That’s fine. Forget I said anything. It didn’t mean a damn thing anyway.” Her voice is dismissive as hell. “Hell, it wasn’t even that good.”
The words cut deeper than I expect. My jaw tightens, heat crawling up my neck. Hypocrite that I am, it still stings.
Fuck this.
Without another word, I leave the dressing room before I do something stupid, like admit I remember every second of the night we spent together.